


cast no shadow, no waters reflect

by inevitablemeow



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Horror, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Psychological Trauma, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27109939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inevitablemeow/pseuds/inevitablemeow
Summary: In this story, you have died too young, soul untethered, left to settle into a darkness you cannot escape. It is a vast forest of lost things, deep and clawing.In this story, you are a lost thing. You cast no shadows. No waters reflect.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	cast no shadow, no waters reflect

**Author's Note:**

> This came from my desire to write something poetic and horrific about Bucky’s mind mid-brainwashing, his headspace during his time with HYDRA, and a twist on Mavka mythology. Commas occasionally abandoned, lost in the stream of consciousness.

In this story, you have died.

In this story, you have died too young, soul untethered, left to settle into a darkness you cannot escape. It is a vast forest of lost things, deep and clawing. 

In this story, you are a lost thing. You cast no shadows. No waters reflect. 

In this story, you are not dead. You are nothing at all.

——

You are torn apart and remade by sharp hands stained crimson.

Your hair grows long, your eyes sink and lose their color, your teeth go sharp. You were a lost thing, but they found you, and you were made again.

Words in languages you do not understand. You do not _know_ the words, but you are made to. The words remake you from the inside out, carving into the bones of you until you are nothing but _them_.

You lose your own words, cannot find them anymore, no matter how deep you dig into the loam beneath your clawing hands. You want to scream those words but you have no tongue, it was taken from you. You want to weep but you were robbed of that, too. Robbed of healing tears.

They have given you something, a gift, they say. It is heavy, and it gleams silver in the low hanging moon, and you tear at it to be free of it, but it is there. It is always there. A gift, they say. A curse.

They put death in your hands, make you something unholy, something depraved, and you want to weep.

_Monster_ , your mind says quietly, in the moments you are alone in the forest. _Monster_. _Monster_.

The forest has become your home, dark and vast, empty of anything at all. You are alone here, and it is night at every hour. The moon is low and you cast no shadows. You look into a pool under a vast oak tree, hoping to see what has been done to you. No waters reflect.

——

You are nothing and you make no noise as you stalk through dark and looming forest, nothing, and yet something just as dark and looming. Your bare feet sink into the mossy earth and you run your fingertips over rough bark.

They send you away and drag you back, over and over, and your hands, flesh and metal, are covered in blood, stained crimson every hour of every day. You feel as though you can taste it, but you have no tongue, they took it from you. 

But the taste is strong despite the loss, iron and copper and something distinctly alive. It is more alive than you are. Brighter. Something beautiful.

You smear the beauty of it across your face as your breath gasps out, as your vision blurs, as you feel like you have not in a long time. It is like this, sometimes. Not often, but sometimes.

Sometimes, you are aware.

Sometimes, you cast shadows, and waters reflect.

——

The forest is littered with the dead.

Blood, guts, bones, teeth, hair. You smell it in the air, the death that was put into your hands. Raw, nauseating. You want to vomit. You do not.

Your hands are drenched in red, at all hours. You leave prints of it over your body as you claw at yourself. You want to be rid of these hands, but you will never be. You have been remade. 

And your hands filled with death drop corpses to the forest floor. You live among them you see only them you feel the absence of soul like a knife in your heart. You try to stay away but the number grows until they cannot be avoided.

The dead watch you pace the forest. The dead know that you cast no shadows, and that no waters reflect.

——

You do not know how long you walk the forest, only that it is a long time. You know this because when they send you away, when they drag you from your forest of lost things and put death in your hands, you see that things have changed.

They send you away, and they call you back with words you were made to understand, and you step back into your forest with a level of relief you cannot comprehend. 

You are left alone in your forest for a length of time you cannot quantify. The moon is always low in the sky, at all hours of all days. But the trees, you can see that they have grown since you were last sent away.

It is denser, here. The silence is suffocating. The dead are more numerous than ever. You feel as though you might be one of them, but you cannot be sure. You know that your heart does not beat like it should, you know that you feel robbed of breath every hour of every day.

You sit by the pool of water under the moon and you wait to be sent away, heart and lungs unmoving. You do not look into the water. You know you do not reflect. It is better that you do not look at all.

——

They send you away, and it is like all times before. They send you away with death in your hands and you add bodies to your vast forest. 

A man appears before you, and he is strong, and he carries sunshine in his eyes. Something about him makes you yearn in a way you cannot understand. You have no words of your own, only the ones you were given, so you have nothing to say of this man.

But he is impossibly strong. You wonder, briefly, _how_ he is so strong, and you wonder, even more briefly, why you feel that he should be smaller than he is.

It does not matter for long. They call you back with words you were made to understand and you settle back into your forest. Your heart feels strange. At least, the place where a heart _should_ be does. You have no heart. You are a thing of misery and violence. Such a thing has no heart.

The black of the forest feels more all-consuming than it ever has, as if now that you have seen the man with sunshine in his eyes, the world is that much darker.

You cast no shadow. But he did.

——

A man walks into your woods. 

The man is gentle, strong, borne of only good. His hair glows golden like a halo atop his head, and his eyes are blue like the sky you long to see, and he carries sunshine. 

He should not be in these woods, your woods, the place of lost things.

This man _is not_ a lost thing. He is a _good_ thing. Of the earth, full of life. He does not belong here among the shadows of the dead that lay in heaps in your woods. 

He was _supposed_ to be a dead thing, another body to line the mossy ground of your forest. There are so many of them, now. Bones and teeth and blood and hair and nothing else. 

There are so many. You trip over them. You fall to your knees among them. Your hands are stained red, dripping crimson, you wipe the beauty of it over your face and you try with everything in you to cry. 

The golden man, angel, you think, from somewhere in the depths of your ragged consciousness. You knew that word, before you were remade. Angel. And this angel, he sees you, though you cast no shadow and no waters reflect. 

He walks through the graveyard of your forest and watches you all the while. He raises a paw of a hand to your face—

You scream, you trip over bones, you fall. You have fallen before, you know the feeling. Down, down, to the ground that rushes at you like something inevitable. You wait for the impact, wait for it to rattle through, wait for it to radiate pain.

There is no impact.

A man steps into your woods, gentle, strong, and he holds you up. 

_Bucky_ , the man says.

And you know that word. You know that word better than you know most anything else. You do not know why you do, but it is inescapable.

_Bucky_ , the man says, as those eyes like the sky hold your own. _It’s Steve_.

_Steve_ , you think. And _that_ word you know better than any other. _Steve_. You try to say the word but your tongue was taken from you long ago, so long ago that you forget what it is like to have one.

You realize this man is still holding you up, and you look down to see your hands stained crimson clutching his shirt, bleeding red through the soft fabric. You rear back, horrified that you have stained this angel, and you collapse to the forest floor.

Your hands sink into mossy earth that is wet with the death you have brought here, stinking and rancid. You want to vomit.

You want this man to leave.

The man casts a long shadow, and the waters of your pool reflect his halo, the brightest thing you have seen in all your time here.

You stand, you stare, you roar, you run.

——

They do not send you away. Your hands do not hold death for a long time. You do not know _why_ they have left you, but you know that you are relieved. You do not know how long you sit beside your pool, only that it feels like eternity.

Still they do not come to send you away.

The dead settle into the earth, until only bones remain, blankets of white over the mossy forest floor. You feel more alone than you ever have, without even the dead for company.

No shadows.

——

The angel of a man walks into your woods.

This time his eyes say different words. This time his eyes say he will not leave without you. You want him to try, you want him to succeed. You do not want to be alone in these woods anymore, sitting among the dead who no longer speak.

The man stands before you, casting a long shadow, and his eyes like the sky are ablaze with something you once might have known the words for.

_Bucky_ , the man says. _Come home_.

_Home_ , you think, confused, _the forest is home_.

_No, Bucky, it’s not_ , the man says, and how did he do that? You do not have a tongue, you cannot speak, your words were taken from you.

You stare at the man and he stares back, eyes on fire with something you might know the words for.

A hand settles on your shoulder, and it is hot like a brand. Hot enough that you flinch. The man pulls his hand away and you want to weep with its loss. 

You do not know how to want, but the hand that was on your shoulder reminds you that you once did. You step closer to the man but you keep your death-filled hands away from him. You will not stain him like you did before.

_I’m sorry_ , the man says, and you will not have that, you will not have him apologizing. 

Your face twists with grief and you lean close, keeping your red-covered hands to yourself as you shake your head. _No_ , you say, and your voice is rough from disuse, but it is _your_ voice. You have to find the words for this, so you dig deep, and you find them. _No_.

Something in the man’s eyes changes, melts down, goes soft. You have not seen a softness like it in a very long time. You stare openly, drinking in that softness like it is the only thing keeping you alive.

_Come home_ , the man says. _Come back to me_.

You frown, watching the man look around your forest of death and lost things. You can see a deep sadness in him, and it feels like his sadness is older than this place.

_I miss you_ , the man says.

_I’m a monster_ , you say.

The man smiles, and it, too, is soft. You want to look at that smile for the rest of your existence, however long that might be. _Never a monster, Bucky. Not in your whole life._

_My hands are stained red_ , you say.

_They did that to you_ , he replies, like it is easy, like it is the only answer.

They did. You know this. They found you as a lost thing, they broke you into pieces, and they remade you with words you were made to understand. They left you in a forest and they put death in your hands and they took your tongue and they stole your tears.

_I cast no shadows_ , you say. _And no waters reflect_.

The man says nothing, but his brow furrows with thought. A hand reaches for your face, slow, careful, and this time you do not scream. This time you lean in, you are ready, and you want. 

You do not know _how_ to want but something like it burns in your belly, eating up all the fear you have lived with for all your time in this forest. You are not _allowed_ to want but still it consumes you. Dead things do not want, but you do, and you think maybe you are not so dead after all. 

_Stevie_ , you say, voice barely loud enough to hear. Still he says nothing, and you fear he has not heard you. 

And then he smiles, and it is radiant, it is sunlight, it is good. You have seen this smile before, you know you have. You have seen it often and you have loved it every time. 

Love. You know that word. That word was very dear to you, before the forest, before they took your tongue. You think you love this angel, you think you have for a long time. It fills you with a warmth you have not felt since you fell. 

You fell. 

A flash of memory hits you so hard you choke. 

A train, icy tracks, a hand reaching far but not far enough, but so close it is not fair. And then you fall, and eyes like the sky disappear into the cloud of snow as you plummet to the ground that reaches up for you like something inevitable. 

_Oh, Steve_ , you say. _I’m sorry._

_No_ , he says so softly, still smiling that smile. _Never. None of this is your fault. You can come home, now._

_Home_ , you say. _Where is home if not the forest? Who do I live with if not the dead? Don’t you see them? They’re everywhere. I have lost count. I cast no shadows but they do_. 

_You live with me_ , the man says, and this time there is determination in his words. _And the dead can go. The dead don’t need you with them anymore. You are not their keeper. Let me take you away from here._

You watch the man, and you know he is being patient. You are thankful for it, because you are having trouble finding your words that were taken from you. You want to give this man everything. You think you know why, but it is a distant thing, another thing taken from you. 

_Steve_ , you say. 

_Buck_ , he answers. 

_I am a lost thing. This is where I belong_. 

_No_ , the man says. _You’re not lost anymore. I’ve found you. You don’t belong here_. The man sighs, and he drops his forehead to press against yours. It is a bright point of contact, white-hot, and you close your eyes with it. _You belong with me_. 

_Have I always belonged with you?_ you ask, afraid of what the answer might be. You want this man to say no. But that would mean you are not his, you are not _his_. You want this man to say yes. But that would mean you have been gone, and you know you have been gone for a long time.

_Always_ , the man says, and his voice is quiet and heavy with something you might have the words for. _And I belong to you_.

He belongs to you. Your eyes that have no color go wide, and you feel your heart kick once like it has not in all your time in this forest. There is an ache that comes with it, and you feel a longing that is as familiar as an old friend.

_Mine_ , you say with wonder in your voice.

The man tilts his head just so, and his lips brush yours so softly that you barely feel it. But you do, and it is a baptism. You feel absolved by this kiss. Cleansed. Your heart kicks another beat, and it starts again.

_Yours_ , he says, and his voice is a soft murmur but it is so loud in your ears. _Come home_ , he says, louder, with so much feeling it hurts you.

You breathe him in for a very long time as you press as close as you can, touching from toe to forehead, every point of contact feeling like a spark igniting something you thought was gone, something you forgot you even had.

_Home_ , you say, as your lips ghost over his. _Yes. I would like that_. 

You _would_ like that. You want nothing more than to be home with this man for as long as you can have it. _This_ man will not send you away. _This_ man will not put death in your hands. _This_ man will not cut out your tongue or steal your tears.

You know these things to be fact more than you have known anything else.

_Please_ , you say, whisper-soft.

You can feel the man’s lips curl up in a smile, and it makes something burn up inside you. That smile consumes you like a house on fire, until it is all that you feel.

_I love you_ , he says.

Your breath catches, a sharp hitch in your throat. _Love_ , you say.

_Yeah, Buck. Love_.

You sigh, and you reach up with hands stained red, and you cling to this man for all that you are worth.

_Let’s go_ , the angel says, and he takes you by the hand, and he backs away from the heart of your forest with the sun in his eyes.

——

In this story, you have died.

In this story, you are remade.

In this story, the forest is your home for so long you forget everything else.

A man walks into your forest of lost things, and he carries sunlight with him, and it clears out the dark that has crept in so deep it has consumed you.

In this story, you step out of the woods. The man leads you by the hand out into the light, away from the dead, away from the moon that hangs low at all hours, away from the looming trees.

You look over your shoulder, one last glance at the forest that housed you in silence for an eternity, and you see something on the ground that you have not seen in so long that you had forgotten what it might look like.

A shadow.

You smile. Your teeth are not sharp. Your eyes have color. And the waters reflect.

**Author's Note:**

> (from Wikipedia) Mavka - The spirits known by this term represented the souls of girls who had died unnatural tragic or premature deaths, particularly unchristened babies. Mavkas often appeared in the form of beautiful young girls who enticed and lured young men into the woods, where they "tickled" them to death. Mavkas had no reflection in water, did not cast shadows, and had "no back", meaning that their insides could be seen.


End file.
